FT MEADE 
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Original Poems 

from the pen of a 


Country Editor 



By 


Grant Kyler 






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Copyright N? 

Copy 2, 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
















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y~f~ ———— — — a 

M 

Original Poems 

from the pen of a 

Country Editor 

L _ . -/ 

BY 

Grant Kyllr 



Price, $ 1.50 


KYLER PUBLISHING CO 
ASHLAND, PA 




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Y 




Copyright f 923 
GRANT KYLER 


JUL "5 ’23 

Y 

©C1A711091 


'M.-G *Y 


Introductory 


^HE short poems and verse contained in this 
unpretentious volume were originally published, over 
a period of several years, in The Ashland (Pa.) Daily 
News, a small town newspaper of which I am editor 
and part owner. They were written, not for profit, 
but for the pleasure found in striving to clothe my 
lowly born Children of Fancy in the royal raiment 
of poetry. In doing thus I have tried to tell, in 
simple language, some of that which I, in three score 
years, have learned of Joy and Sorrow; Success and 
Failure; of shattered Flope renewed; of weakened 
Faith restored; of Victory wrested from Defeat, and 
of Love that never dies—to bring" somewhat of glad J 
ness to the Soul, and to help as best I may in making 
the Better Life worth striving for. 

The work has been a pleasing task—as is much 
of the amateur’s labor. In some parts it is crude 
and imperfect, and to what extent I have succeeded 
in that for which I have tried is far the reader to 
judge. 

GRANT KYLER, 

Country Editor. 


Ashland, Pa, May 30, 1923. 


DEDICATED TO 

Leigh Mitchell Hodges, 

Optimist 

WHOSE FINE 5PIRIT OF HELPFUL¬ 
NESS MADE POSSIBLE THIS BOOK 
WHICH 15 PUBLISHED WITHOUT 
HI5 KNOWLLDGF- 


CONTENTS 


My Wish for You. 9 

Sic Transit Gloria. 10 

Cross Bearers. 12 

Regret . 13 

Idyll of a Winter Night. 14 

Inasmuch .. 15 

Why Should Hearts Repine?. 16 

The Mystery of Tears. 18 

The Ragman of Life. 20 

The Weaver and The Maid. 21 

To a Lily. 23 

On the Death of Will Carleton. 24 

What is the Time?. 25 

The Face at the Window. 26 

To a Caterpillar. 27 

The Scissors Grinder. 28 

Whippoor-Will. 30 

The Conquered North. 31 

Trailing Arbutus . 32 

The Toll Gate. 34 

Success. 35 

He Was Kind. 36 

Growing Old . 38 


5 

























CONTENTS 


The Fcrgettery . 39 

HOME AND MOTHER 

The Harbor of Rest. 43 

Waiting for Me. 44 

My Queen of May. 45 

The Garden of Meditation. 46 

Voices of the Night Time. 47 

To Friends of Other Days. 48 

A Pipe Dream. 49 

A Place I Know. 50 

The Minor Chord. 51 

Forgotten Songs . 52 

Constancy . 53 

An Old-Time Girl of Mine. 54 

The Tenplate Stove. 56 

The Town Clock. 58 

Grandma’s Ginger Cake. CO 

Memory’s Book . 62 

CHILD TOPICS 

The Twins . 67 

The Colonel’s Fractious Steed. 68 

The Tyrant . 70 

The Boy I’d Like to Be. 72 

Make-Believe Land . 74 

0 
























CONTENTS 


When Grandfather Lost His Head. 76 

Father by Adoption. 77 

The Inquiring Mind. 78 

SACRED TOPICS 

Christ—Human and Divine. 81 

An Easter Prayer. 82 

The Psalm of Grace.. 83 

The Great Physician. 84 

Faith Rebellious . 85 

The Covered Way. 86 

OPTIMISM 

The Spirit of Optimism. 89 

Compensation . 90 

Pleasure Pictures. 91 

Transformation . 92 

A Wayfarer’s Home. 93 

Sunshine Alley . 94 

Passing the Time of Day. 96 

Tomorrow . 97 

The Optimist . 98 

When My Ship Comes Home. 99 

The Peddler . 101 

The Average Man. 103 

Heroes . 105 


7 
























CONTENTS 


The “Has Been”. 107 

The Undertaker. 109 

THE WORLD WAR 

The Battle Call. 113 

The First to Fall. 114 

My Daddy’s Dead. 115 

When I Heard McAllen Swear. 117 

What the Watchman Said. 119 

Easter Dawn at Verdun. 120 

A Mother’s Letter to Her Soldier Son. 122 

By Right Divine. 124 

3HSCBI/EANEOUS VERSE 

When I Was King. 129 

A Little Joy Ride. 130 

Danny Jones and His Pipe. 132 

Insomnia . 133 

Weather Blind ... . 135 


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ORIGINAL* POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


MY WISH FOR YOU 


1V/T Y WISH for you is written here: 
1YX May joy be seasoned with a tear 
Just salt enough to rightly blend 
The good and ill that time may send; 
And may you have a smile to spare 
For folks that somehow miss their share, 
And may the gift the giver earn 
A richer blessing in return. 


I wish for you a useful life; 

Some part of ease; some part of strife— 
Enough of each to make you strong, 

That you may nothing fear but wrong— 
And may you have abundant strength 
To bear you through life’s mortal length. 
And help you every night to* say: 

“I did my very best today.” 


I wish for you abounding health; 

The peace of toil-earned worldly wealth; 
The gift to save; the grace to give 
With joy, that weaker ones may live— 
And should your lines with pain be cast, 
May patience even pain outlast, 

And love make light the darkened way 
Until there dawns the perfect day. 


9 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


SIC TRANSIT GLORIA 


T-T OW transient is glory! 

How fleeting is fame! 
A briefly told story! 

A quickly snuffed flame! 
A song that is mingled 
With laughter and tears! 
A deed that is singled 
A moment for cheers! 


The beauty adorning 
The dawn is forgot! 

The dew of the morning— 
It was and is not! 

The snow of December— 
How soon it is past! 

The rose we remember 
While fragrance may last! 


The wheel of the potter 
Shapes idols of clay, 

Whose altars soon totter 
To dust and decay! 

The laughter of pleasure! 

The sobbing of pain! 

The gold that we treasure!— 
All, all, are in vain! 


Like shadows quick-flying 
That sweep o’er the lawn, 


10 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


All things to their dying 
Are hastening on, 

And naught is eternal, 
Except it be Love, 
Immortal, supernal, 

A gift from above! 


11 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


CROSS BEARERS 



HREE men there are, and each his burden bears: 


The one upon his bosom proudly wears 
A cross of bronze—a small, beribboned toy— 

And yet it fills his soul with martial joy— 

Did he not step from out the ranks a pace, 

To meet the great commander face to face, 

And thrill with pride when pinned upon his breast 
The hero’s badge of honor close was pressed? 


Another bears a cross of wood rough-hewn. 

That marks a mound of earth but 1 freshly strewn— 
And who shall say that he above whose head 
The outstretched arms of Sacrifice are spread, 

Had not a more than mortal joy and pride, 

When for his country flowed life’s crimson tide— 
E’en though no army watched with bated breath, 
As he stepped from the ranks when called by death, 


Another bears a cross that no one knows, 

And bravely unto calvary he goes, 

Where day by day anew, as though he died, 
His soul is tortured, scourged and crucified— 
He cannot boast the prize by valor won, 

Or know the peace of him whose fight is done, 
And yet far braver than the others he 
Who bears a cross unseen to Calvary. 


12 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


REGRET 


G OD made a day and wrought by hand 
Around the edge a rosy band, 

And deftly o’er a field of blue 
He spun a fleece of rainbow hue. 

And placed within my heedless care 
His handiwork beyond compare. 


’Twas morning, and the day begun 
Was mine until its course was run, 
To do with as my fancy choose— 
To treat aright, or wrongly use— 
Yet scarce gave I a single thought 
Unto the wonder newly wrought. 


The noontime passed and evening came: 
Who made the dawn, then caused to flame 
The sky with glory, that amazed 
My soul, as westwardly I gazed, 

And saw the gift of promise, bright, 

Ill used, take shelter with the night. 


13 




ORIGINAL! POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


IDYLL OF A WINTER NIGHT 


I-TARSH blow the arctic winds and chill; 

-*■ Far spreads the winter wool o’er vale and hill; 
Beneath the Frost King’s sceptre lies 
A crystal realm full-arched with starry skies— 

And o’er the earth on,velvet feet 

There steals the beauty of a night complete. 


All bleak the world without and bare; 

No sweet perfume of flowers scents the air; 
Long since the singing birds have flown, 
And Winter rules supreme, austere, alone— 
Slow dies the wind, and scarce a sound 
Disturbs the silence of a night profound. 


Upon the hearth bright embers glow, 

And flying sparks, like flakes of crimsom snow, 
Dart here and yon as if in fear, 

Pursued by leaping flames and disappear— 

As meteors that speed their flight 
To shelter in the soundless void of night. 


14 





ORIGINAL POEiMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


INASMUCH 


N IGHT came, with silence deep, 

Yet brought not peace to me who could not sleep; 
Regrets disturbed my rest, 

As fears intangible the dark infest. 


Disquiet ruled my thought— 

The day was done. Had I no good deed wrought? 
(Alas, how sharp the thorn, 

When for a goodless day at night we mourn.) 


I searched the hours to find 

Someone to whom, perchance, I had been kind, 

And, lo, with joy I smiled— 

O’erlobked admist the throng I found a child— 


A child of tender years, 

Whose face yet bore the damp of unwashed tears. 
And then came peace. I slept— 

For I had comforted a child that wept. 


15 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHY SHOULD HEARTS REPINE? 


T EAVES have their time to fall; 

Why then should sadness reign? 
Rest is the best of all 
That life can e’er attain. 


Spring comes, and buds peep forth. 
And infant leaves unfold; 

Birds winging to the north 
Return to haunts of old; 

Streams from new fountains burst, 
And flowers bloom anew; 

Earth drinks with avid thirst 
The sunshine and the dew. 


High in the dome is swung 
The flaming torch of day; 

Far spread abroad is flung 
The Summer’s bright array; 
Earth her abundance yields 
For man, and beast, and bird, 
And from the harvest field 
The gleaner’s song is heard. 


Then comes the Autumn chill. 

And life prepares to sleep; 

O’er stubble field and hill 
The shadows early creep; 

Birds wing their southward flight; 
The leaves turn brown and sere; 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Day lingers long with night— 
’Tis twilight of the year. 


Why then should hearts repine? 

From death’s embrace at last, 
Life, at the call divine, 

Will rise from out the past. 


17 







HOJ,ICKT AHiNilOO V JO NSCd C5TEL MOHJ SWSOd r IVNK)IHO 


THE MYSTERY OF TEARS 


Hr* W O tears were born so close akin 
The other seemed of each a twin, 
Until upon the tiny spheres 
I gazed as did the ancient seers, 

Who sought by wizardry to learn 
Of nuptial feast or funeral urn, 

By waking from immortal sleep 
The genii of the crystal’s deep. 


I gazed, and lo, within the one 
There moved a carnival of fun; 

I saw a bride arrayed in white 
Her troth unto her lover plight, 

And gladness coursed her throbbing veins, 
As when a stream aflood complains 
And frets the gates that scarce can hold 
The strength of waters ’gainst them rolled. 


Within the other tear was seen— 

As if ’twere pictured on a screen— 

A path across a desert broad 
That one alone in sorrow trod, 

The while in agony was pressed 
A shriveled form close to her breast— 
The corpse was Love that early died— 
The mourner was the erstwhile bridle. 


I sought the mystery to probe, 

And scanned anew each tiny globe — 

18 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EtDITOR 


One tear from Marah’s depths thus spake: 

“I bring relief else hearts would break.” 

The other said: “The joy I bring 

From Marah’s transformed waters spring.”— 

In one there blooms a red, red rose— 

A desert place the other knows. 


19 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE RAGMAN OF LIFE 


|~^\ONG! Dong! Dong! Hear the ragman sound his gong, 
^ As over the road he gathers his load. 

While his wagon moves slowly along. 


He buys for a penny the discarded gown 
That once graced the form of the belle of the town; 
And ’mongst the old garments is sure to be found 
The wrags that wrapped Poverty’s body around. 


There’s lace from the veil of a yesterday’s bride; 
A piece from the robe of an infant that died; 

A grandfather’s coat, moth eaten and worn; 

And ribbons yet gay with the brightness of morn. 


Each bag is a bundle of gladness and tears; 

The ragman is Time, and his wagon the years; 
The road that he travels is rugged and steep, 

And ends where our days with the centuries sleep. 


Dong! Dong! Dong! Hear the ragman sound his gong, 
As over the road he gathers his load, 

While his wagon moves slowly along! 


20 






ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE WEAVER AND THE MAID 


The Maid to the Weaver 

O H, WEAVER, thread thy loom with glee, 
For l a bride am soon to be, 

And weave for me a cloth of gold, 

And warp a smile in every fold. 


I want no tinge of Sorrow’s brown 
To dull the glory of my gown; 

No jealous green, nor Passion’s red, 
Else I, perchance, hot tears may shed. 


I want a cloth as light and fair 
As mist upon the morning air— 
So, fashion me a garment gay 
To wear upon my wedding day. 


The Weaver to the Maid 


O H, MAIDEN fair, upon my loom 

There ever plays a strand of gloom. 
And through the cloth of gold so bright 
There warps and winds a thread of night. 


Yet I for thee will gladly weave 
A cloth of gold and make-believe, 
And place within each fold a smile, 
To last thee for a little while. 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


A little while! a year, a score— 

I pray ’twill last till life is o’er— 
When Love may drape the filmy cloud 
About thy form—a bridal shroud. 







ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


TO A LILY 


D O YOU not know, sweet scented thing 

Whose beauty fills the the heart’s desire, 
That unseen roots tenacious cling 
Unto the slimy ooze and mire; 

And are you not ashamed to raise 

From out such filth your graceful stem, 

And bare unto the vulgar gaze 
A virgin-petaled diadem? 


Does not your beauty blush to trace 
The source wherein your life was spun, 
Ere you might claim the wondrous grace 
That clothes you now, most radiant one! 
And are you not afraid to hold 
Aloft your crown of pearly pride, 

Lest some may think you overbold, 

And prudes your place of birth deride? 


Or, do you bloom, and blooming show 
That things ill-shapen and deformed 
To perfect gracefulness may grow, 

Till lines unsightly are transformed 
To beauty’s shape, and upward rise 
From ugliness, until they spread 
A glory o’er the muck that lies 

Wherein was wombed your vestal head? 


23 




original poems from the pen of a country editor 


ON THE DEATH OF WILL CARLETON 


H E DOES not die whose songs remain 
To heal a heart wound of its pain; 
To wipe from Sorrow’s eyes a tear. 

And fill the gloom of night with cheer; 
To smooth the way for feet that tread 
Where old, old hopes are newly dead— 
Nay, nay, he lives and ever will, 

E’en though his voice be ever still. 


What matter Life, if Death’s release 
Brings to the soul a sweeter peace? 
What matter Death, if on Life’s page 
Are words that brighter grow with age— 
As wine unto whose ruby heart 
A richer hue the years impart, 

Until it hoards a wealth untold 
Of captive sunshine’ filtered gold. 


No lofty theme was his to cause 
The world to sound its vain applause— 
He sung of simple things and good, 

To simple folk who understood, 

A song so sweet that weary men 
Will sing it o’er and o’er again— 

His lute is silent, yet there springs 
Sweet melody from broken strings. 


24 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHAT IS THE TIME? 


W HAT is the time?” I asked. 

Life answered: “It is Spring; 
The dew is on the grass; 

The birds their matins sing— 

Go, strew the way with flowers gay— 
The morning soon will pass!” 


“What is the time?” I asked. 

And thus Life made reply: 

“ ’Tis Summer—Spring no more— 

And gleaning time is nigh. 

’Neath feathered breast the fledglings rest— 
And noontime soon is o’er!” 


“What is the time?” I asked. 

Life said: “’Tis Autumn, friend— 

The sun is in the west; 

The day and evening blend— 

The birds are fled; their sones are dead— 
Yet, twilight time is best!” 


“What is the time?” I asked. 

“ ’Tis Winter,” Life replied, 

“And meadows drifted deep 
With daisies once were pied. 

The light burns low. Across the snow 
Night comes. ’Tis time to sleep!” 






ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN - OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW 


A S IF in a mirror reflected, 

Against a dark background of gloom, 
A Demon of Night through the window 
Peered into the light-flooded room, 
Wherein I was brooding one evening 
Alone with the Spirit of Rage— 

And hate on the face was imprinted 
As if ’twere embossed on a page. 


How harsh and forbidding the features! 

How cruel the mouth! From the eyes 
There quivered a flight of the arrows 
That pierces Love till he dies! 

So fiendish the face that I trembled, 

And yet, with the courage of fright, 

I threw up the sash, and was startled 
To find but the void of the night! 


With fear gripping fast to my vitals, 

I turned once again to my chair— 

The Demon was gone from the windbw— 
The face of another was there! 
f ’Twas haggard, as if unto torment 

The soul from the body was gone. 

And left a deep impress of torture 
On features lacklustre and wan! 

I looked, and, the face in the window 
Grew calmer, and, oh, I could see 
My soul in its nakedness gazing 
From out of the darkness at me! 


26 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


TO A CATERPILLAR 


TAOST know, thou loathsome, creeping thing, 

■* Whose instinct prompts thee when to weave thy 
shroud, 

That, recreated, thou canst wing 

Thy flight on airy pinions to yon cloud, 

And with thy fairy colors bright < 

Add to the world one more delight! 


Hast thou foreknowledge of the fate 
That waits upon thy resurrection mom, 
When thou shalt force apart death’s gate 
And reappear transformed and newly born; 
A thing of beauty, blithe and gay, 

To float ’mid blooms where sunbeams play! 


Or, dost thou do the Master’s will 

Unknowing that, some day, thou shalt receive 
A beauteous shape, and thus fulfill 

On earth the hope of those who now believe 
That after death each soul, like thine, 

Will be transformed by touch divine? 


27 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE SCISSORS GRINDER 


X-J E WAS just a scissors grinder, 
A A With a scissors grinding kit, 
And a smile that seemed the kinder 
’Cause it seemed to be misfit. 


I first heard his merry laughter 
When a little dog raced by— 
With a larger one hard after— 
Yelping forth a loud “ki-yi!” 


Then, he spoke about the weather; 

Of “da Big-a-Boss” above, 

And the hope that binds together 
All the world with cords of love. 


Seemed to me he was a vagrant, 
Scarcely better than a tramp, 
Yet his soul was sweetly fragrant. 
As a rose when dewy-damp. 


And his voice grew soft and mellow. 
And ’twas hard to understand. 
When he said: “My leeta fella 
In da Big-a-Boss’s land.” 


Then he told a simple story 
Of a life that passed away, 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


As a cloud obscures the glory 
At the Eden-time of day. 


Eyes alight with love were burning; 

To his lips there came a smile, 

As they whispered, gently yearning: 
“He mus’ wait a leeta while.” 


Then he spoke of blossoms making 
Orchards white as driven snow, 
While the laughing winds are shaking 
Petaled sweetness high and low. 


And I knew him for a brother 
Of the craft where I belong; 

Though each claimed a different mother, 
Hearts alike were tuned to song. 


29 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHIPPOOR-WILL 


W HILE the day on dusky pillows 
Of the night is lulled to sleep, 
Where the valley upward billows 
To the mountain’s downward sweep. 
When the sable veil is falling, 

And the gleaner’s song is still, 
Comes a cry—as someone calling— 
“Whippoor-will! Whippoor-will!” 


Many-tongued the echoes answer 
To the fullness of the sound, 

As if an elusive dancer 

Moved unseen the dusk around, 

Till the call—from where the wonder— 
Here and yon, now faint, now shrill— 
Robbing silence of its plunder 
Sets the twilight world athrill. 


30 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE CONQUERED NORTH 


a | QUEEN, with desolating breath! 

• Thy heart by man at last is won, 
And paths that lead through frozen death 
Are traced beneath the midnight sun! 


The wind blows chill about thy throne, 
And icy deeps unfathomed lie 
Where silence reigns with thee alone, 
And snows are drifted mountain high. 


The shifting desert of thy snow 
Is Time’s eternal resting place, 

And brave were they who sought to know 
The secret stamped upon thy face. 


What lure was held within thy smile 
That man was urged upon a trail 
Where death intones each weary mile, 
And crystal flakes the corpses veil? 


O! cruel Queen that rules the North! 

How great the price that man has paid 
For what is proved of little worth 
Since all thy poverty is weighed! 


31 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


TRAILING ARBUTUS 


O H, WEAVER from Dreamland! 

Thread deftly thy loom, 

With sunbeams that filter 

Fine gold through the gloom, 

And weave for my fancy 
An emblem of Spring, 

Whose censor before me 
In fragrance may swing.” 


“I’ll thread for thy pleasure 
My loom with delight. 
And weave thee a flower 
Thy love to incite— 

No gold of the noonday, 
No purple of eve, 

May vulgar the nosegay 
That for thee I’ll weave. 


“My loom I will cover 
With silver fine-spun 
From fleeces that hover 
’Ere day has begun 
I’ll card from the blushes 
Of dawn, ere they flee, 
The rose tint that flushes 
The shells of the sea. 


“My shuttles and bobbins 
I’ll wind with a song 


32 





ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OP A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Of blue birds and robbins 
That happen along, 

And weave thee a flower 
Of silver-kissed pink— 
’Twill last for an hour, 
No longer, I think. 


“With beauty unfinished; 

With weave incomplete, 
And fragrance diminished, 
I lay at thy feet 
The Trailing Arbutus— 
To Spring it is true, 
And like her eludes us 
By hiding from view.” 


33 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE TOLL GATE 


S OMEWHERE or other along the road 

That pilgrims plod with their earth-born load. 
There stands a toll gate, lichened and gray, 
Where a keeper stern and grim, 

With arm outstretched bars the narrow way. 
And there’s no evading him— 

For the hand of Fate 
Keeps the lichened gate, 

In the shadows gray and dim. 


’Tis stronger than tear, or smile, or frown— 
No strength can batter the barrier down— 
No plea avail when the toll is laid, 

Nor cry, nor sigh, nor moan— 

The uttermost farthing must be paid. 

And each must pay it alone— 

E’en a mother’s prayer 
Is as empty air— 

For the keeper’s heart is stone. 


The prideful master; the humble slave; 

The trembling coward; the warrior brave— 
All, all, must pause at the gate awhile, 

Where the sleepless watcher stands, 

And e’er they pass through the lichened stile. 
In the stern old keeper’s hands 
They must place the toll. 

E’en though a soul 
Is the price that he demands. 


34 



ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


SUCCESS 


W HAT constitutes success? 

Nor wealth nor fame— 
These are of each the less: 

Elusive flame 
Blown hitherward and yon 
By every breath, 

To flicker, pale and wan, 

Till quenched by Death, 


Success is not the gain 
Of selfish ends— 

’Tis won through loss and pain; 

The scorn of friends— 

And they who do not know 
See but defeat, 

Where time alone will show 
Success, complete. 


That is success which tries 
For nobler things— 

As when the acorn dies 
The oak upsprings, 

So happens oft to those 
Of dauntless soul— 
Above their grave a rose 
Proclaims the goal. 


35 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


“HE WAS KIND” 


I N A long neglected churchyard there’s a stone whereon 
you’ll find— 

If you push apart the brambles—this strange tribute: 
“He Was Kind.” 


Did they speak of him when living what they spake of 
him when dead? 

Was his sacrifice of giving recompensed by what they 
said? 

Did he ever hear the tribute that was chiseled on a stone 

That has made his grave an altar to the God of Love 
alone ? 


When he wiped the tear of sorrow from the troubled 
cheek of care, 

With a smile as soft and gentle as the touch of balmy air, 
Did the living lips remember, when again they learned to 
laugh, 

That a spoken word is greater than a sculptured epitaph? 


When he helped a weaker brother who had wandered 
from the way, 

Where the road was dark and gloomy, and the skies were 
dull and gray, 

Did the one his love had rescued call a blessing on this 
head 

Of the doer of the kindness.—Did he wait till he was 
dead? 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


When he heard the anguished sobbing, and the cry of 
childish grief, 

O’er a treasured toy new-broken, and was quick to give 
relief. 

Did the boy with wagon mended, or the girl with doll 
repaired, 

Wait until the “dear departed” neither knew and neither 
cared? 


Was the kindly heart all spotless, or had sin deformed 
and marred— 

As a piece of precious marble oft is traced and veined 
and scarred— 

Ere he learned the love and patience that would spare the 
word of blame 

As he helped to bear the burden of another’s guilt and 
shame ? 


Ah, I know not what the reason, yet the promptings of 
my mind 

Lead me on to ask the question 1 Did they tell him he 
was kind? 


3 / 






ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


GROWING OLD 


A LITTLE more frost in the chill winter air; 

A little less warmth in the sun; 

A sprinkle of silvery white on the hair, 

And gladness when labor is done. 


A little less eager to enter the strife; 

A little more patience to wait 
While others pass by on the highway of life— 
A little less railing at fate. 


A little less boastful of strength and of skill; 

A little more wasteful of time, 

And willing to rest at the foot of the hill, 

To measure the length of the climb. 


A dimness of vision for things of today; 

A far-sighted view of the past; 

While shining with gold lies the westering way, 
As twilight and evening come fast. 


38 





ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE FORGETTERY 


IN MEMORY’S attic I’ve fashioned a room, 
With never a window to lighten the gloom, 
Wherein I have gathered a wonderful lot 
Of things that are better for being forgot. 


There, broken and dulled, are the arrows and spears 
Of Ridicule tipped with the poison of tears; 

And sarcastic Humor, whose quick-flying darts 
Were feathered with smiles to impale tender hearts. 


A quill that was plucked from the Gossip Bird’s wing; 
A nettle of Scorn with its venomous sting. 

A Truth but half spoken, distorted and bent, 

In confidence whispered with evil intent 


And, too, there is hidden away out of sight, 
Wrapped closely around in the garment of night, 
A bundle of Grief, and a cup that is stained 
With hemlock that Sorrow in agony drained. 


All, all, are forgotten! I’ll never more climb 
The stairs to the attic, where covered with grime, 
The things that are better for being forgot 
Are lost in the dark of the loneliest spot. 










Home and Mother 










ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE HARBOR OF REST 


I N THE peaceful home nest 
Is a Harbor of Rest, 

When the work of the toiler is done, 
And the cares that abide 
On the ebb of the tide 
Sail away in the wake of the sun. 


Sail away out of sight 
O’er the waves of the night, 

Till they leave not a ripple behind 
In the sheltering bay, 

Where the cares of the day 
Never ruffle the calm of the mind. 


When the sun goes to sleep 
In the vast western deep, 

There is joy in the Harbor of Home; 
And there’s rest for awhile 
While the star-faces smile 
From the windows in heaven’s vast dome. 


43 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WAITING FOR ME 


A T EVENING, oft I saw her stand 
Within the open door, 

Where slanting sunbeams forged a band 
Of gold upon the floor; 

With arm upraised to shield her eyes 
That she might better see 
The highway merged with purple skies, 
While keeping watch for me. 


With love responsive, quick she came 
To comfort me at night, 

(If I but whispered mother’s name 
The dark was filled with light). 
And bending o’er the trundle bed 
Would patient vigil keep, 

Until the ghostly shadows fled> 

And I was fast asleep. 


I know she waits and watches still, 
With welcome in her smile, 

Beyond the brow of life’s steep hill, 
Beside the golden stile, 

Where she with mother-love will plead. 
All tenderness and grace, 

That he who caused her heart to bleed 
May find with her a place. 


44 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


MY QUEEN OF MAY 


WISH that I again might see 
The smile upon her face. 

When I, a-flush with victory, 

Had won a boyish race; 

How kind the look the dear eyes gave; 

How soft and light the hand; 

How sweet the voice that called me brave 
In childhood’s far-off land. 


I’d like once more if she could hear 
My “lay me down to sleep;” 

To catch the whispered “I am near,” 
When shadows gather deep; 

To feel her arms about me cling, 

And fold me to her breast; 

And in the twilight hear her sing 
My little fears to rest. 


I’d like to wipe away the stain 
Of all the tears she shed; 

To make each hill a level plain 
Of velvet to her tread; 

To pluck from out the rose the thorn— 
If she were here today, 

I’d plan a feast of wine and corn, 

And crown her Queen of May. 


45 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE GARDEN OF MEDITATION 


HP HERE’S a feeling of sadness comes o’er me. 
Too deep for expressing in words, 

When the day-muted sounds of the garden 
The quiet of twilight disturbs, 

While the glow of the fire flies brighten 
A path leading down through the years, 

And a vision of days that have vanished 
Is prismed with laughter and tears. 


In the garden of sweet meditation 
I rest as within a loved room. 

While the crickets are voicing their vespers 
There rises a subtle perfume, 

And within the faint mist of the incense 
A day-weary laddie I see, 

And his eyes, slumber ladened, are blinking 
A message from dreamland to me. 


And I hear once again the old story— 
The sweetest of tales ever told 
By the angel that watches o’er children, 
And shepherds them in the home fold; 
And I long, with unspeakable longing, 
That I when day-weary might sleep 
Once again in the arms of the angel 
That shepherds the home-folded sheep. 


46 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


VOICES OF THE NIGHT-TIME 


V OICES of the night-time! 

Sweet the songs they sing: 
Like a distant bell chime, 

That the angels ring 
From cathedraled towers 
O’er the midnight aisles, 

When the darkness showers 
Starry-bright its smiles. 


Voices of the night-time! 

Soft the shadow-sound 
Steals beneath the earth grime, 
Where the soul is bound, 
Like a captive waiting 
For a glad release, 

And the time of mating 
With a boundless peace. 


Voices of the night-time! 

Guiding hearts aright 
Where the jeweled paths climb 
Upward through the night; 
Telling o’er the story 

Of a “home, sweet home,” 
Far beyond the glory 
Of the splanged dome. 


47 



ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


TO FRIENDS OF OTHER DAYS 


A T EVENING when the twilight falls, 
And lengthening shadows cast,. 
There is a still, small voice that calls, 
From out the distant past, 

With sound as sweet as silver bells, 

Or elfin music in the dells, 

While thoughts come crowding fast. 

With half-closed eyes I sit and dream 
Of long-since vanished days; 

While fairy fancies dance and gleam, 

And flit before my gaze: 

Like forms reflected in a brook, 

Or sunbeams in a shady nook, 

As light through darkness strays. 


’Tis then I see the friends held dear 
In youth, who passed away; 

The golden days when skies were clear 
And work seemed only play; 

And feel with pleasure, almost pain, 

The joys of childhood once again, 

When all the world was gay. 

A sacred place within my heart, 

Kept always fresh and green, 

Is mem’ry’s garden, set apart 
To days that once have been; 

And planted in that hallowed spot 
There grows and blooms Forget-Me-Not, 
Sweet scented, pure and clean. 

48 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


A PIPE DREAM 


t^ROM the cares of the world I found release 
■*- While watching the smoke from my pipe of peace 
And to me it seemed, as I slept and dreamed, 
That I traveled a winding path which led 
From the garden gate of an old homestead, 

Over the hill, to an old stone mill, 

Where the whispering winds in the willows call 
To a barefoot boy by a waterfall. 


I followed the pathway, all alone, 

Through a clover field, where the lazy drone 
Of bees was heard, and my joy was stirred 
By the wordless song in a minor strain. 

And my soul was filled with the sweet refrain 
Of summer days, when the distant haze 
Enwraps the earth in a royal gown 
And hangs like a veil o’er the path of brown. 


And my heart was filled with a sense of rest— 
As I turned again to the old home nest 
A cradle song came floating along, 

And I heard once more, ’neath the evening sky, 
The words of an old-time lullaby; 

When pure and clear, from the orchard near, 
Came the twilight call of a whippoor-will— 
And I woke from my dream—an old man still 


49 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


A PLACE I KNOW 


T KNOW a place where willows stand 
Beside a quiet stream; 

The garden spot of fairy land, 
Entrancing as a dream; 

A place where silence seems complete. 
Until a melody 

Of waters singing, low and sweet. 
Makes rich the harmony. 


Where robber bees in treasure cave, 
Beneath a bramble’s root, 

The pilfered sweets of blossoms save. 
And store their summer loot; 

While velvet-footed chipmunks run 
Along a mossy rail, 

And dragon flies, ’neath summer sun. 
Their shimm’ring wings unveil. 


Where Nature’s organ softly plays 
Among the templed trees, 

An anthem rich of summer days, 
Encored by every breeze; 

And sounding through a solemn hush. 
There sweetly floats along, 

From golden-throated lark or thrush, 
A hallelujah song. 


50 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE MINOR CHORD 


W HEN a master hand is sweeping 
O’er the polished ivory keys,, 
And a minor chord is weeping 
In the voice its magic frees, 

I can hear the rhythmic swinging 
Of a cradle on the floor. 

And a woman softly singing 
By a partly open door. 


And a drowsy bee is droning 
Just beyond the window sill, 

Like the faint and muffled moaning 
Of a distant woodland mill; 

Far away a buzzard soaring, 

Higher mounts before my eyes, 
In a graceful spiral boring 

Even upward through the skies. 


And a lazy lad is lying, 

Half asleep, beneath a tree, 
While the minor chord is sighing 
For the days that used to be— 
Ah! the woman’s song is over, 
Lo, these many, many years, 
And the lad that slept in clover 
Knows the bitter taste of tears. 


51 




ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


FORGOTTEN SONGS 


A S SPRINGS from sources hidden 
Their crystal fountains start. 
Old songs forgot, unbidden 
Upwell within my heart— 

May be a song of pity, 

To soothe me when I’m sad; 

May be a tuneful ditty, 

To make my spirit glad. 


Ofttimes, as forth I travel 
Amidst the busy throng. 
Unprompted I unravel 

The tangled threads of song. 
Until the silver lining 
Behind the clouds I see, 

And know the sun is shining. 
Though hid from sight it be. 


But, ah, when work is ended. 
And waking yet I dream. 

With past and present blended— 
As mirrored in a stream 
A dove from out the wildwood 
Takes flight on silent wing— 
So come the songs of childhood 
That mother used to sing. 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


CONSTANCY 


W HEN twilight crowns the forest-crested hill, 
And voices of the day grow faint and still, 
Bereft of thee, beloved, I grieve most sore, 

And long for thee as ne’er I longed before, 

The while my soul, across the field of night, 

To be with thee, beloved, wings far its flight. 


When sets the sun in majesty divine, 

Mine eyes from out the dusk look into thine; 
When day is done and comes the time to sleep, 
My soul with thine a tryst of love would keep, 
And o’er the path of dreams seek out the way, 
And bide with thee till comes again the day. 


The darkness cannot hide thee from mine eyes, 
Nor distance mute the whisper of thy sighs; 
Whate’er of grief thou knowest, I shall know; 
Where’er thou goest, there, too, I shall go, 
And if the path thou tread’st should thorny be, 
The way of suff’ring I will walk with thee. 


53 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


AN OLD-TIME GIRL OF MINE 


DAY upon a journey 
I mingled with a crowd, 

And chancing recognition, 

I voiced a name aloud; 

And while the travelers jostled, 

We built above the years, 

With hands outstretched in greeting, 
A bridge of smiles and tears. 


Across the bridge of fancy, 

We two as children sped, 

And roamed awhile where lingers 
The ghosts of pleasures dead; 
Till drawing nigh the station, 

The train from down the line 
Announced the time of parting 
From that old girl of mine. 


To meet her was a pleasure 
That made my old heart glad; 
She was my boyhood sweetheart— 
The first I ever had— 

And though on joys departed 
The sun no more will shine, 

One day was made the brighter 
By that old girl of mine. 


Her hair that once was raven, 
Is threaded now with gray; 


54 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Upon the cheeks where dimples 
Were wont to hide away, 

The years are gently weaving 
The meshes faint and fine, 

That ne’er can veil the features 
Of that old girl of mine. 

5-: J-s 

Now, mother, what’s the matter? 

There is no need to frown! 
Why, she lives ’way off yonder. 
And I in this man’s town— 
Besides, you know, no other 
Your place with me can hold, 
For you and I together. 
Sweetheart, are growing old. 




ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE TENPLATE STOVE 


HEN the winter winds blowed chill, 
* ^ Long ago, 

And afar o’er vale and hill 
Lay the snow, 

There was one delightful spot:— 

Old Aunt Jennie’s humble cot, 

With the tenplate piping hot, 

All aglow. 


And the tidy, well kept room, 

To my eyes, 

Would erase the winter gloom 
From the skies, 

While sweet odors ’scaping from 
That old tenplate’s ovened drum, 
Told of pleasures soon to come— 
Cakes or pies. 


Dear Aunt Jennie in her chair 
Seemed to fit, 

\s if God had placed her there 
Just to sit, 

And recount in voice so mild 
Stories of the Manger Child 
(Often was I thus beguiled) 
While she’d knit. 


Through the winter afternoon 
She would rock, 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


And betimes a hymn she’d croon, 
While the clock 
Beat the measure to the time, 
With a solemn sort of chime, 
Till I deemed it ’most a crime 
Just to talk. 


I can vision where it stoodi 
By the door, 

With the box piled high with wood 
Kept in store— 

And within the small alcove 
Oft I dreamed while fairies wove 
Magic rings around the stove, 

On the floor. 


How I wish that once again 
Light might gleam 
From that old tenplate as when, 
Through the steam 
From the kettle’s curving spout 
Fancies winged their flight about. 
Till I wakened with a shout, 
From a dream. 


57 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE TOWN CLOCK 


F ROM my tower four-square. 
Rearing high in the air, 

I look down, 

While I mark through the years 
All the laughter and tears 
Of the town. 


From my aerie I gaze 
On the streets tangled maze. 
Where there moves, 
Pigmy-statured, a throng 
Hast’ning ever along 
In their grooves. 


And the mannikins look 
On my face as a book, 
While they plan 
For the days yet to come, 
(Ere their voices are dumb) 
As they can. 


When the eastern stars pale 
I’m the first to give hail 
Unto day, 

And the echoes rebound 
When my tocsin I sound: 
“To the fray!” 


58 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


When the town is asleep. 
Faithful vigil I keep 
Until dawn; 

And I cry, day and night. 
As the hours take flight: 
“They are gone!” 


Through the silence a prayer 
Floats aloft on the air 
To my tow’r, 

From a soul that would give 
Wealth untold just to live 
For an hour. 


Heeding not I keep watch. 
While the seconds I notch 
One by one, 

In my hour-voice loud 
Calling unto the crowd: 
“It is done!” 


m 




ORIGINAL, POEMS PROM THE PEN OP A COUNTRY EDITOR 


GRANDMA’S GINGER CAKE 


A FTER breakfast, Friday mornings. 
Dear Old Grandma used to make 
All the solemn preparations 
For the Sabbath ginger cake. 

First, she’d get a gingham apron 
From the comer-cupboard drawer, 
Slowly walk across the kitchen; 

Stand awhile within the door; 
Prophesy next Sunday’s weather— 

Say ’twould cloudy be or fair— 

Ere she placed a sack of flour 
On the most convenient chair; 

Then she’d ’range the different fixings 
On the table in a row; 

Take of each the right proportion— 
That was instinct, you should know— 
And mix up a golden batter 
In a great big wooden bowl, 

Beating time with perfect measure 
That was music to my soul. 


With the batter rightly finished, 

She would take a wooden spoon; 
Deftly ladle out the mixture, 

While contentedly she’d croon 
To herself a solemn metre— 

Which, alas, I have forgot— 

Ere she placed the pans of sweetness 
In the oven piping hot— 

And I see the dear old lady 
Stooping low before the stove, 

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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


While she smiled with satisfaction 
At her golden treasure trove— 
There was nothing finer ever 

Served to princes, kings or queens, 
Than the ginger bread my Grandma 
Used to make with New Orleans— 
And I still can taste the flavor 
Of the slice she always gave 
To a hungry little urchin 
If he promised to behave. 


Ht 




ORIGINAL* POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


MEMORY’S BOOK 


I WAS thinking last night as I sat in the dark, 

Of a boy and the toys in an old Noah’s ark, 

When the elephant turned with a queer sort of look, 
Touched the spring on his trunk, and spread open a book; 
And I saw an old volume all dog-eared and torn, 

With its pages stained yellow, and leaves thumbed and 
worn, 

And the tattered old book seemed familiar to me, 

As I spelled out the title and read “Memory.” 


With a love-moistened finger I turned the leaves o’er, 
Till I came to a chapter—a blurred kind of four— 

Where a soldier in kirtles astride of a steed 

That was made from a broomstick, looked valiant indeed, 

As he fearlessly charged on the fast fleeing cat, 

With a small wooden sword and a large paper hat— 

(As the printing was blurred, I got into a mix, 

And perhaps thought it four when it really was six.) 


Then I turned to the chapter whose heading was eight— 
I am positive, certain, that such was the date— 

For the drawing was printed as of yesterday, 

And it pictured the youngsters engaged at their play— 
There was “Hide-a-whoop,” “Nipsey,” and other old 
names, 

That are diff’rent entirely from present day games; 

And my heart was delighted to look in the eyes 
Of the fellows that measured just up to my size. 

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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Next I looked at a chapter—’twas number sixteen. 

And the fairest of all—purple, golden and green— 

With the rose of the morning yet tinging the blue, 

While the shadows of evening were hidden from view; 
And I gazed at the friends of my youth who had planned 
With myself when the world was a great fairyland. 

And our castles of cobweb seemed stronger than death. 
Though their foundations tottered at each passing breath. 


Then I read the last pages—the ink was still wet, 

For the chapter’s continued, and not finished yet— 

And I saw that the purple had faded to brown; 

That the laughter was silenced oft times with a frown; 
That the gold of the noontime was frosty and chill; 
While the shadows grew deep at the base of the hill, 

And the rose of the morning less often was seen, 

Though the pages were bordered with deep, living green. 


And the elephant turned with a queer sort of look, 
Touched the spring on his trunk and closed Memory’s 
Book; 

But I kept on a-dreaming, until I awoke 

With a strange kind of feeling, as if I would choke, 

For a sob from the past got entangled somehow 
On my lips with a smile for the days that are now. 






















Child Topics 



ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE TWINS 


I SAW them coming down the street. 
One pleasant Sabbath morning; 

As like as peas from head to feet, 

And gay was their adorning. 


Bright ribbons blue were wrapped about 
Their curly golden tresses, 

While slippers white flashed in and out 
Below pink-tinted dresses. 


So like were they in form and size 
That I began to trouble, 

And laid the blame upon my eyes— 
I thought my vision double. 


’Twas two I saw—howe’er I’d try— 
So matched in every feature, 

It seemed but one companioned by 
A shadow-fashioned creature. 


I sought my doubts to put at ease, 

And then, becoming bolder, 

I asked them: “Will you tell me, please, 
Which of the two is older?” 


With dancing eyes they looked at me— 
As fair as sunny weather— 

And chorused thus: “Why, can’t you see? 
We both were born together!’” 


t>7 





ORIGINAL. POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE COLONEL’S FRACTIOUS STEED 


C OLONEL Limburger looked brave, indeed. 
Astride of a fractious broomstick steed. 
Soldiers had he—they numbered a score, 

And made their camp on the kitchen floor— 
(Where’er the army’s tents were pitched 
The Colonel’s steed of war was hitched.) 

The Colonel would march his valiant troops 
In single file, by couples and groups. 

Forward, to rear, and from side to side— 

He sought the enemy far and wide— 

(The Colonel’s horse would always neigh 
Whene’er he joined the battle fray.) 

“Ready!” and bravely the troops would cheer 
Just loud enough for the Colonel’s ear; 
“Charge!” and the soldiers would take a chance 
Behind the steed that would wildly prance— 
(The steed, a fractious, rearing beast, 

Of war’s alarms was not the least.) 

Captain Sweitzer, most valorous one, 

Had lost a leg ere the fight begun; 

Dumpling, Lieutenant, the company led. 

But ’twasn’t long till he lost his head— 

(The steed turned ’round a bit too fast, 

And Dumpling’s head went spinning past.) 

Sergeant Skipper and Corporal Mite 

Were each brought down by the charger’s flight; 

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ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Schnitzler, the Grenadier, low was laid— 
The last of the Colonel’s brave brigade— 
(’Twas wondrous what that steed could do: 
He made one man the fourth of two.) 


Hospital call was sounded, and then, 

With paste the Colonel repaired his men. 
Great was the slaughter the charger wrought, 
But such, alas, is the soldier’s lot— 

(Them that suffered the hardest knocks 
Were buried in an old shoe box.) 


t 


m 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE TYRANT 


IV/f Y FRIEND is a dear little “geezer,’ 
1YX A tyrant as stern in his way 
As e’er was imperial Caesar, 

Who ruled over Rome in his day. 


The tyrant of Rome, runs the story, 
Had legions of soldiers at hand, 

To add to his temporal glory, 

And do what he choose to command. 


What Caesar would wish a full measure 
Was given to him without stint, 

And kingdoms would empty their treasure 
If Caesar but gave them a hint. 


The tyrant of whom I am writing 
Is unlike the tyrant of Rome, 

In that he knows nothing of fighting, 
And rules in the Kingdom of Home. 


He governs by right of a power 
Far greater than Caesar could claim— 
A frown, and his subjects will cower, 

A smile and they give him acclaim. 


He laughs, and the fountains of gladness 
Make fruitful the land with delight; 


70 




ORIGINAL, POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


He weeps, and a river of sadness 
Flows deep as the fathomless night. 


The tyrant to whom I’ve indited 
This verse is a wee little boy, 
And Rome ne’er in Caesar excited 
The pleasure he finds in a toy. 


71 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE BOY I’D LIKE TO BE 


A LTHOUGH I have been living 
Some sixty years of time, 

I know a little fellow 

Whose hands are soiled with grime; 
Whose face is full of freckles, 

Whose legs are brown with tan; 
Who wishes—how he wishes— 

To be a full-grown man. 


He does not like to study; 

He tells me that the rain 
Which prisons him from pleasure, 
Gives him the keenest pain; 

And sometimes, too, he trusts me— 
As only children can— 

With what he will accomplish 
When he becomes a man. 


The world may change, but childhood 
Remains today as when 
I longed to join the battle 
Upon the Field of Men— 

And, lo, into my keeping 
Is thrust again the key 
To boyhood, while I’m watching 
The lad I’d like to be. 


God bless the little fellow— 

May all his dreams come true, 

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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


And know not disillusion, 

As came to me and you— 
And that I ne’er will tell him, 
For in his eyes I see, 

As on a painted canvass, 

The boy I’d like to be. 


78 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


MAKE-BELIEVE LAND 


W HENEVER I look at my little granddaughter, 

I’m charmed by the lure of her love-winning gaze; 
Beneath her caress I’m ,as clay which the potter 
So skillfully fashions in fanciful ways. 


If I chance to be whereabouts she is playing. 

The wee little girl reaches out a soft hand, 

And soon o’er the paths of delight I am straying. 
With she for my guide into Make-Believe Land. 


Through Make-Believe Land we two journey together, 
Where nothing but gladness and beauty abides; 
Where sunshine is brightest in gloomiest weather. 

And naught that we wish for denied us besides. 


There time in its flight is by magic retarded; 

No more do I carry the burdens of men; 

The years from me fall as a garment discarded— 
In Make-Believe Land I’m a child once again. 


And after a time, when my vision grows clearer, 

I cuddle her close and know that her sweet smile 
Brings Heaven itself unto earth a bit nearer, 

In Make-Believe Land where I bide for awhile. 


Pray God, may she hold of her faith such a measure, 

74 







ORIGINAL, POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


That Make-Believe Land may be hers through the 
years— 

A heritage greater than earth-given treasure— 

A sheltering place from the tempest of tears. 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHEN GRANDFATHER LOST HIS HEAD 


A TRULY remarkable infant!” 

Is what the babe’s grandmother said, 
And solemnly added this dictum: 

“The child has her grandfather’s head!” 
Then up went my hands in a flutter— 

I felt that it could not be true, 

And yet to make certain I ventured 
To tap on my skull a tattoo. 


I’m new to the grandfather business. 

I felt of my head—it was there— 
Yet, wanting a double assurance, 
With pain I uprooted a hair. 

The senses of touch and of feeling 
Assured me my head was fast on. 
In spite of the contra assertion 

Of grandma, who said it was gone. 


I looked at the child—she was sleeping— 
And only one head could I see, 

And puzzled the more o’er the statement: 

“Her grandfather’s headpiece has she!” 
With care I then tested my members 
From toes unto crown, each a part, 

And found that grandma was mistaken— 
My grandchild had stolen my heart! 


76 




ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


FATHER BY ADOPTION 


TT WO kiddies live close by my home— 
Each may be three years old— 
The one has hair of chestnut brown, 

The other tawny gold; 

The one has eyes of violet hue; 

The other orbs of jet— 

I know not which is prettier— 

The blonde or the brunette. 


But, this I know: whene’er they run 
To meet me on the street, 

It seems that cherubims could not 
Than either be more sweet; 

And when they grasp each one a hand, 
And, laughing, say to me: 

“Turn on; we’ll take you home,” I’m just 
As happy as can be. 


The brunette’s home adjoins my own; 

The other one—the blonde— 

Lives just a few doors farther down— 
Of each I’m equal fond— 

They, too, I know are fond of me, 
And though I’m not their dad, 

It seems they have adopted me, 

For which I’m really glad. 


77 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE INQUIRING MIND 


[ HAVE a young friend of a curious mind, 

-*■ And oft to her questions no answer I find— 
She’s only a child of quite innocent thought, 
Yet makes of my learning as if it was not. 


There’s so many things that her bright eyes behold, 
That puzzle her much, and she thinks, as I’m old, 
That I should be able to tell her just why 
The stars do not fall from their place in the sky. 


The profoundest problems she ventures with ease: 
“Why is the moon yellow if made of green cheese?” 

And, “Where are the clouds when there’s none overhead ?” 
And, “Why is it night when the sun goes to bed?” 


In framing my answers I soon learned to know 
’Twas well to be cautious, and speak rather slow, 

And oft to her queries I thus make return: 

“Ahem! When you’re older the reason you’ll learn!” 


78 





Sacred Topics 



















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ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


CHRIST—HUMAN AND DIVINE 


I T IS not strange that Christ, the Man, should die! 
Was He not fashioned out of mortal clay, 

A vessel tempered in the toil of day 
Like we, who laugh and smile, or weep and cry, 

As children who are pleased or vexed at play? 


It is not strange that He should know our grief! 
A Nazarene—despised of all the earth— 

The scorn of man was His e’en from His birth 
Until He died companioned by a thief, 

The sport and jest of ribaldry and mirth. 


It is not strange that He should know our joys! 
Did not the beauty of His smiling face 
The festive marriage feast at Canaan grace? 
Did He not bless the children, girls and boys, 
Who sought Him in a quiet wayside place? 


It is not strange that He for us should plead! 

He knew our frailties and the tempter’s wiles; 

He, too, had tempted been by Satan’s smiles; 

He, too, had prayed for help in time of need, 

And knew how weak is man when sin beguiles. 

But, oh, how strange His triumph over death! 

’Twas Christ, the Man, they laid beneath the sod— 
A mortal shape like ours, an earthy clod— 

And, lo, Jehovah whispered, and His breath 
Awoke from sleep the Christ Immortal—God! 

£1 



ORIGINAL. POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


AN EASTER PRAYER 


C HRIST of the Easter morn! Our hearts forlorn 
Thy comfort give. 

That vve may feel that death is life new-born. 

Since Thou dost live. 

Fling wide the door of hope, that we who grope 
Our way alone 

May see the guiding star that shines afar 
Above Thy throne! 

When grief or time shall blow and drift the snow 
Upon our hair, 

Speak Thou within our hearts that we may know 
That Thou art there! 


Christ of the Eastertide! With us abide 
We humbly pray. 

Be Thou the light that through the gloom shall guide 
Our wand’ring way. 

’Mid all the stress of life keep us from strife 
Of will with Thee, 

And ’neath the dark’ning skies ope Thou our eyes 
That we may see, 

As days with age grow old, Thy love unfold 
Its sweet perfume, 

And sweeter grow as nearer we behold 
The empty tomb! 





ORIGINAL. POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE PSALM OF GRACE 


nr HE LORD my Shepherd is, and He will keep 
Me safe, and when at last I sleep, 

He’ll lay me down in pastures green and rest 
My weary head upon His breast. 


When ’midst the vale’s dark shades my soul shall flee 
His rod and staff will comfort me. 

Until the Morning Star shall rise and shine 
With everlasting light divine. 


No want I’ll know when I shall walk beside 
The silent waters with my guide, 

For He, my Lord, in righteous paths will lead 
My soul and grant my every need. 


Before His table He will place a seat 
Close by my loving Master’s feet, 

And fill my cup with joy till it overflows 
With pleasure that no mortal knows. 


And with my Lord in peace my soul shall dwell 
Beside the everlasting well, 

And through eternal years with love abide, 
Safe sheltered near my Shepherd’s side. 


83 



ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE GREAT PHYSICIAN 


T CANNOT tell the reason 
- 1 *- Why sorrows have to come; 

Why tears make blind the vision; 

Why hearts with grief grow numb— 
And yet I’ve seen the glory 
Of faith that held its sway. 

When idols fondly cherished 
Were shattered in a day. 


I’ve seen a hope defeated, 

When all but life had fled, 

Arise with faith undaunted, 

As one from out the dead, 

And daring every danger, 

With spirit strong and brave, 
Wrest victory from disaster, 

When naught seemed left to save. 


I’ve heard the voice of wailing, 
The sobs and sighs of grief, 

Till Faith, the Great Physician, 
Brought peace beyond belief— 
I’ve learned that He who numbers 
The sparrows as they fall, 

And holds the worlds in balance. 
Loves mankind best of all. 


84 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


FAITH REBELLIOUS 


T PRAYED for joy, and trouble was my lot— 
A messenger of sorrow to me brought 
The answer, and my heart complained: 

Why did the ruler of the universe 
Send grief to make my discontent the worse, 
And further test a faith o’erstrained? 


My soul rebelled—yet from the depths I cried— 
And Sorrow still unto my plea replied; 

Again, and once again, I prayed; 

No answer came, and anger filled my heart, 

And passion tore the strands of faith apart, 

And Hope within the dust was laid. 


But, ah! there came a time when anger fled; 

When passion cooled and left remorse instead, 

And I, with grief, repentant knelt, 

And humbly prayed for strength to bear the strain— 
For help to quench the furnace heat of pain 
That caused my very heart to melt. 


I prayed that faith alone to me be saved, 

And, lo, there came the joy I one time craved. 


85 





ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OP A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE COVERED WAY 


T HE night is but a covered way to bind 
A day that was unto a day to be, 

And when the sun’s bright lamp is quenched I find 
The covered way so dark I cannot see 
The day that lies beyond; 

Yet strong my faith that I shall find the light 
Beyond the covered way of gloomy night; 

So, when the shadows gather gray and deep, 

For dawn I wait within the house of sleep. 


I know that sunshine follows after dark, 

And that the Autumn-death will surely bring 
Unto the hidden nest the meadow lark 
To sing the resurrection song of Spring, 

When buds will burst their bonds, 

And life—a stronger, newer life—will start 
And force the gates of Winter’s grave apart, 

In answer to the all-compelling voice 

That conquers death and leaves to souls no choice. 


I know not when these mortal leaves shall turn 
All brown and sere, and shrivel in a day; 

Nor when the lamp of life shall cease to burn 
And shadows gather o’er the covered way 
That leads from night to mom; 

But this I know; faith stronger is than fate, 

A nr! when within the house of sleeo I wait 

The coming of the light, a day divine 

Will dawn as sure as ’morrow’s sun will shine. 







Optimism 










ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE SPIRIT OF OPTIMISM 


I GATHER the roses of pleasure. 
The thistles of trouble and tears, 
And fill to the brim a heart’s measure 
Of hopes all entangled with fears. 


I pick out the jewels of gladness— 

The days that v/ere sunny and bright— 
And find they are better than sadness 
To lighten the gloom of the night. 


I know that a yesterday’s sorrow 
Is soothed by a touch of today; 
That tears are the smiles of tomorrow 
That work is prophetic of play. 


I balance the burdens I’m bearing 
With others from which I am free, 
And feel that the yoke I am wearing 
Is light as the foam of the sea. 


I learn that the secret of living 
Is doing the best that I can, 

And offer a prayer of thanksgiving 
To God for His goodness to man. 


89 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


COMPENSATION 


S OMEWHERE or other is waiting 
Pay for the deeds we have done. 
Whether in love or in hating. 
Whether in earnest or fun. 


Maybe we’ll gather a flower, 
Rare as a rose in the snow. 
Planted in life’s tender hour. 
Deep in a garden of woe. 


Maybe a fountain of gladness— 
Purified waters of grief— 

Far in the desert of sadness 
Will to our hearts bring relief. 


Somewhere or other the measure 
Meted to others will spill 
Into our soul a great treasure, 
Or an abundance of ill. 


90 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


PLEASURE PICTURES 


p ACH day I paint a picture new 

Of scenes that pass before my view— 
Just simple little things to lay 
Aside to cheer a gloomy day. 


The pictures that I paint are crude— 
The colors poor, the drawing rude— 
And yet, when winter days begin, 
They let a bit of summer in. 


Sometimes I catch a smile or song; 

A pleasant face amidst the throng— 

The simple things that bring good cheer 
To dismal days that hearts most fear. 


Each day a picture new I make. 

And store away to ease the ache 
Of days when drizzling rain drops stain 
With trickling tears the window pane. 


91 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


TRANSFORMATION 


v/inds of chill December 
* * Their mournful dirges croon, 
"Tis then that I remember 
The singing birds of June, 

And through the gloomy weather 
There lightly floats along 
Upon the storm a feather 
From out the breast of song. 


The snow flakes are but showers 
Of orchard blossoms sweet, 
That make of summer bowers 
A fairy-like retreat; 

And though the wind be bitter. 
And tempests be abroad, 

I hear the songsters twitter 
Above the greening sod. 


And thus I gather pleasure, 

And store it safe away— 

As misers hoard their treasure— 
Against a gloomy day. 


92 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


A WAYFARER’S HOME 


TF I HAD the genius and wealth I would plan 
A sheltering place for the wayfaring man, 
Wherein the forgotten and friendless might stay 
A year or a month, or a week or a day— 

A Haven of Rest for the pilgrims that roam 
The highways of life without kindred or home. 


The Wayfarer’s Home would not be a place 
Where charity’s mask hid the hypocrite’s face; 
’Twould not be a palace, where broad marble halls 
Would multiply echoes of timid footfalls; 

’Twould not be a monument whereon would flame, 
In brazen-faced letters, the architect’s name. 


The site I would choose in a green shaded vale, 

Close by where the shadows make gloomy life’s trail; 
And where the rough road stretches steep to the west, 
I’d plan for the building and christen it “REST.” 
’Twould just be a home where the weary would find 
A rest for the body; a peace for the mind. 


There’d be cozy corners where comrades could meet; 
There’d be velvet pathways for world-weary feet; 

And there would be chambers with silence imbued, 
Where naught on the wayfarer’s dreams might intrude— 
And, wrapped in the twilight, the dreamer might hear 
A song as the Angel of Sunset drew near. 


93 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


SUNSHINE ALLEY 


T T IS known as “Sunshine Alley,” 
And I wonder whose the blame 
That a place so bleak and dreary 
Should be given such a name; 

For the way is rough and narrow. 
And the houses are so small 
That the weeds within the gardens 
Shadow more than half the wall. 


“Sunshine Alley!”—sad misnomer— 
Why, to glimpse the sun, alack, 
’Twould be almost necessary 
To lie flat upon your back; 

For the way is through a valley 
Where the hills reach up so high 
That their brows are boon companions 
To the clouds within the sky. 


I was certain “Sunshine Alley” 

Had, somehow, been christened wrong, 
Till one day I chanced in passing 
To be greeted with a song, 

And a merry peal of laughter, 

While a crazy violin 
Played a tune that plainly told me 
That the sunshine was within. 


In the alley homes are fashioned 
Somewhat on the storebox plan, 


94 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


And the tenants intermingle 
Like the members of a clan, 
While the dogs and little children 
Are at home where’er they sleep, 
For the folks in “Sunshine Alley” 
Open hearts and houses keep. 


95 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


PASSING THE TIME OF DAY 


,r PlS GOOD to meet the folks we know, 
As ’round about the town we go; 

Yet better still it is to greet 
A passing stranger on the street, 

And note how quick, with glad surprise, 

Our “How-d’-do” lights up his eyes! 


“Good Morning, Sir!” The cheery sound, 
As wind-cast seed on fallow ground, 

Takes quickly root, and thrives and grows, 
Till heart’s-ease bloom amid the snows, 
And flowers deck the pilgrim’s way, 
Though skies o’erhead be cold and gray! 


“Good Evening, Sir!” When fades the light, 
And pilgrims journey t’ward the night, 

’Tis like a benediction, then, 

This greeting from the lips of men— 

And home-folk have the right to smile 
On guests who tarry for awhile! 


96 






ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OP A COUNTRY EDITOR 


TOMORROW 


B EYOND tomorrow’s dawn-gilt rim, 
Earth-blind, I cannot see; 

Today is all I ask of Him; 

’Tis all He gives to me. 


Tomorrow He in trust will keep— 
Today is mine to hold, 

Until the sun shall fall asleep 
As one in youth grown old. 


I do not crave the right of seers— 

The veil I would not lift 
That shields tomorrow’s smiles and tears— 
Content, I wait His gift. 


97 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE OPTIMIST’S CREED 


HT'O RENDER willing service to the end; 

To give of what I have—to share or lend 
To rich or poor alike in time of need— 

For wealth is often poor of love, indeed. 


That day is lost wherein I’ve not achieved 
Somewhat of good; somewhat of pain relieved; 
Some kindly act performed; some grief assuaged. 
Or debt of love, perhaps long owed, repaid. 


It is not life for self alone to live! 

I know life richer grows the more I give— 
’Twas giving thus that made the widow’s mite 
The greater treasure in the Master’s sight. 


It is not all of death for me to die! 

For words and deeds from out the grave will cry. 
To bless or curse the world wherein I’ve toiled— 
To leave it cleaner, or besmirched and soiled. 


98 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME 


T T IS just the old, old story 
Of a ship upon the main, 
That is bringing home a cargo— 
Maybe pleasure; maybe pain. 


There’s a vessel somewhere sailing 
Homeward bound upon the sea. 
And I often pause and wonder 
What her hold contains for me. 


Will she bring me joy and pleasure? 

Will she bring me wealth and fame? 
Will she bear a wreath of laurel 
To entwine about my name? 


Will she burdened be with trouble? 

In a hulk unsound and old? 

Have for me the funeral cypress? 
Poverty instead of gold? 


Will the skies be dark and gloomy 
When my ship at last appears? 
Will she furl her sails and anchor 
In a harbor choked with tears? 


Will the summer sun be shining 
When at last she reaches home? 


99 







ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Will she gain the sheltered haven 
Though the waves be capped with foam? 


Though I know not what her cargo, 
Yet I pray the God above 
That her captain’s name be Hopeful; 
That her pilot’s name be Love. 


100 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE PEDDLER 


I F I WERE a wizard whose magical skill 

The waste of a desert with fruitage might fill; 
Or could I transmute baser metals to gold; 

Recall the dead past and the future unfold; 

Bring youth unto age, and place age on the shelf— 
I’d practice the wizard’s black art on myself. 


My wand I would wave, and, presto! I’d stand 
An old man in tatters with staff in my hand; 

I’d tap on the ground with my staff, and a pack— 

A monstrous big thing—would be bound on my back; 
My face would be wrinkled; my hair long and gray, 
And forth as a peddler I’d fare on my way. 


Within the huge bundle I carried there’d be 
The strangest assortment of wares you might see: 
Not trinkets and geegaws; not ribbons and lace— 
Instead would be laughter a tear to replace— 

And thus I would barter where’er I migh range: 
A joy for a sorrow at even exchange. 


The monstrous big bundle, the length of my staff, 
Would be of a size as to make people laugh— 

But what matter jesting if sadness but find, 

When I had departed, joy lingered behind?— 

No goods would I sell, and where poverty dwelt 
The warmth of the sunshine of gold w<ould be felt. 

I’d give in exchange for the sobbings of grief 
101 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


A measure of gladness surpassing belief; 

To hearts that were darkened by trouble I’d give 
The light of a comfort that ever should live— 

Ah, were I a wizard what would I not do! 

Each wish in the wishing would surely come true! 


102 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE AVERAGE MAN 


I WONDER what the world would do 
Without the Average Man— 

The fellow fashioned just like you, 

Who builds what others plan; 

Who does the work that must be done 
To make the world go ’round; 
Without whose toil the daily sun 
Would shine on barren ground. 


The Average Man is just about 
Five feet five inches tall; 

He is not thin; he is not stout; 

He’s medium—that’s all— 

He fights the fights that must be fought, 
Nor wails, nor moans, nor cries. 

If his be but the common lot 
That in the trenches dies. 


The Average Man just does the things 
That must be done today, 

And often at his work he sings 
To speed the time away; 

The hissing steam is music sweet 
That tingles in his ears; 

The bounding hammer’s clanging beat 
His soul with gladness cheers. 


In shop or office, on the farm. 
Far underground, or high 


103 





ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Upon a slender vibrant arm 
Of steel against the sky, 

He does the work that needs must be— 
The task no other can— 

And monarch over land and sea 
He reigns—the Average Man. 


104 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


HEROES 


,r jPlS NOT hard to be a hero, 

And to play the hero’s part, 
While the pulse is wildly dancing 
To the music of the heart, 

And a multitude is waiting, 

Silenced, awed, with bated breath, 
While a man to save another 
Flings a challenge unto death. 


‘Tis not hard to be a hero, 

And to wear the wreath of fame, 
While the passions of a moment 
Build an altar to a name, 

And enthrone thereon an idol— 
Though it be a god of clay— 
Which they’ll worship until anger 
Bids them turn, and rend, and slay. 


It is hard to be a hero, 

When the heart is filled with dread; 
When the soul is overburdened, 

And the strength of hope is'fled; 
When there’s nothing left but honor, 
Yet for honor’s sake to fall 
With the ones that need must perish 
Ere the victors scale the wall. 

Are they not accounted heroes, 

Who, unnumbered and unsung, 
Never yet the gauge of battle 

105 






ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


In the face of death have flung; 
Who, for high and noble purpose. 
Bear the burden of the day, 
And, all fearless, do their duty, 

Go the battle as it may? 


106 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE “HAS BEEN” 


A ND why not a song for the “Has Been”?— 
The giant who yesterday stood 
Alone on the summit of greatness, 

And wrought as no other one could; 

Whose genius and skill were the marvels 
Of men, till he weakened and fell; 

Whose faults are remembered; whose virtues. 
Forgot, in oblivion dwell? 


Perhaps ’twas the song of a siren 

That lanced through the armor he wore, 
And left in the soul of the giant 
A torturing, festering sore; 

Perhaps ’twas the glass of illusion, 

That lured him with promises sweet 
Of multiplied strength, ere it cast him 
A wreck on the rock of defeat. 


Who knows of temptations resisted? 

Who knows of allurements defied? 

Who knows how the strength of the giant 
By weakness was tested and tried? 

Was not he who slew the Philistines 
Unto his undoing ordained, 

When, lured by the smiles of Delilah, 

The might of a Samson was chained? 


And cannot the giant that faltered. 
Like Samson return to his own, 


107 




ORIGINAL. POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


And even if blinded by failure 

Recover a strength that has flown? 
So, here is a song to the “Has Been,” 
Who struggled, resisted, and fell— 
’Tis said that an angel once tempted 
Was plunged to the darkness of hell, 


108 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE UNDERTAKER 


T HE undertaker is my friend, 

And when I grace a comer 
Within a darkened room, he’ll bend 
Above me as a mourner; 

And though he may not weep so loud 
As some my loss bewailing, 

He’ll wrap my faults within my shroud— 
My sins and follies veiling. 


He’s not morose, indeed, by half, 

In spite of common rumor, 

And often times with him I chaff, 
And pleasure in a humor 
That puts to flight an old belief— 

An error long accepted— 

That he who knows so much of grief 
By joy has been rejected. 


He is a diplomat and knows 
That grief is deaf to reason; 
That after every gale that blows 
There comes a calmer season; 
And so he moves his way along. 
And counts it but a duty, 

To give to life a cheerful song, 
While robing death in beauty. 


109 


















The World War 




















ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE BATTLE CALL 


A WAKE, ye freemen, from your sleep! 

Hold not the tryst with ease! 

Behold the smoke of battle sweep 
The far horizoned seas— 

And, lo, against the lurid glare 
Our valiant ships are seen, 

And proud are they aloft to bear 
The flag of starry sheen! 


And hear ye not the far-flung call, 

In challenge to the world? 

Shall freedom totter to her fall 
And yet our flag unfurled?— 

The soul that fought at Bunker Hill, 
That stormed Manilla Bay, 

Is living yet the pulse to thrill, 

All eager for the fray! 


Be quick, ye sons of dauntless men, 
And gird yourselves with might! 
The summons comes to each again 
To battle for the right! 

Be strong! Our flag is in the sky— 
The banner we hold dear— 

And whereso’er that flag may fly 
Her sons will answer “Here!” 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


THE FIRST TO FALL 


S OMEWHERE over yonder. 
Where barrages thunder, 
And shrapnel and shell 
War’s agonies swell, 

Until the heart shivers 
In terror and quivers 
As if rent asunder 

By blastings from hell— 
’Twas there that they fell— 
Enright and Gresham and Hay! 

Where sacrifice drenches 
With crimson the trenches— 
Where death is defied 
And mercy denied— 
Q’erwhelmed and outnumbered. 
By darkness encumbered, 

Where war’s pungent stenches 
Forever abide— 

For freedom they died— 
Enright and Gresham and Hay! 

They gave unto glory 
The theme of a story 
That ever is new: 

Of knighthood so true, 

That strives without malice. 
And drinks from war’s chalice 
On battlefields gory 

Death’s bitterest brew— 

They did this for YOU— 
Enright and Gresham and Hay! 

114 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


MY DADDY’S DEAD 


HP HEY tell me that my Daddy’s dead! 
The other day my Mamma read 
A letter that the postman brought, 
And then she bowed her pretty head, 
And cried, and cried, an awful lot, 
Then took me in her arms and said: 

“Q, Laddie, Laddie, Daddy’s dead!’' 


I hardly can believe it so! 

Why, just a little while ago, 

He stood with me by Mamma’s side. 
And spoke so quiet like, and slow, 

While Mamma held his hand and cried, 
Until he stooped and whispered low: 
“Our country needs her sons, you know!” 


And then he said “Good Bye,” and took 
Me in his arms—my, how they shook— 

And hugged me to his breast “for keep”— 
Just like the Shepherd with the crook 
Holds in His arms the little sheep— 

And Daddy’s eyes had just the look 
As has the Shepherd in the book! 


And just this morning Mamma stayed 
Upstairs so long I grew afraid, 
Because the house was awful still, 
And even when I talked or played 
It sounded empty-like, until 


115 





ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


I knelt by Mamma, where she prayed. 
And on my head her hand was laid! 


And then I felt it must be true, 

And closer to my Mamma drew— 
Why, we need Daddy just as bad 
As anything—indeed we do— 

For Mamma’s heart is awful sad, 

And something hurts me thru and thru! 
My Daddy’s dead! What will we do! 


116 




ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHEN I HEARD McALLEN SWEAR 


T DON’T go much on cussin’ 

’Cept when things are herdin’ rough, 
An’ even then my swearin’ 

Sounds uncommon hard and tough; 
An’ times is seldom frequent 
That I do not wag my tongue 
When blaspheme, roughly spoken, 

On the atmosphere is flung. 


But, Pard, I had the pleasure— 
An’ it wasn’t long ago— 

Of list’nin’ to McAllen 

Cuss the Kaiser high and low. 
His voice was most pecoolyer— 
Seemed to me I sensed a pray’r. 
All camouflaged with cussin’, 
When I heard McAllen swear. 


For months he’d been in Flanders, 
An’ he tol* a grippin’ tale 
Of sacrifice an’ glory 

That’d make a stout ,heart quail— 
An’ I jus’ set an’ list’n’d 

To the “Man From Over There,” 
An’ breathed “Amen” whenever 
I would hear McAllen swear. 


Now, don’t you get a notion 
That McAllen is a tough, 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


’Cause he is softly spoken, 

An’ he cusses jus’ enough 
To make you “feel” the color 
Of a picture—I declare— 
That’s what I “felt”—a picture— 
When I heard McAllen swear. 


An’ Pardner! Such a picture! 

If the horrors that I seen 
Could somehow be projected 
On a movin’ picture screen, 
McAllen would have company— 
Yore cussin’ ’d burn the air, 
To see what lust was doin’ 

To the women over there. 


I don’t believe in cussin’— 

An’ I seldom take a fling— 

But when I saw a baby 

From a blood-stained bay’net swing, 
I clean forgot religion, 

An’ I opened up for fair— 

But, Pard, my cussin’ ’s nothin’— 

You should hear McAllen swear! 


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ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHAT THE WATCHMAN SAID 


H O, WATCHMAN! tell me of the fight— 
How many dead are they?” 

“Upon the plain before my sight 
Unnumbered thousands lay!” 


“And tell me, Watchman—con them all— 
Who are they that have died?” 

“With Saxon, Teuton, Slav and Gaul 
The field is thickly pied!” 


“And what is yonder crimson cloud 
Above the valley spread?” 

“That is the far-flung battle shroud 
To wrap the newly dead!” 


“What is the sound that greets my ears, 
And fills my heart with woe?” 

“’Tis women’s sobs made wet with tears 
That deep as rivers flow!” 


“And why must women weep and mourn, 
For husband, father, son?” 

“’Twas thus since e’er the world was born— 
’Twill be till worlds are done!” 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR, 


EASTER DAWN AT VERDUN 


jpAST'ER dawn is breaking 
Where a battle cloud, 
O’er the plains of Verdun 
Hovers like a shroud. 


Here a battered helmet; 

There a broken sword; 
Over all the pity 
Of the Risen Lord. 


Hark, the sentry’s challenge,— 
Someone drawing nigh:— 
“Who goes there?” The answer: 
“Fear not, it is I.” 


“Who art thou that cometh 
Ere the day is born?” 

“I am He who conquered 
Death on Easter morn; 


“He whom traitor Judas 
With a kiss betrayed, 

Ere the stripes and scourgings 
On My flesh were laid; 


“He who bore His burden 
Unto Calvary; 


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ORIGINAL PORMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


He who knows the torture 
Of Gethsemane; 


“He who saved Barabbas 
From the felon’s doom; 
He who rose triumphant 
Even from the tomb!” 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


A MOTHER’S LETTER TO HER 
SOLDIER SON 

W HEN you were called to war, my soul rebelled; 
Within my heart the bells of sorrow knelled 
As if for someone loved and newly dead; 

And I, that never yet had learned to know 
The strength of sorrow, cringed beneath the blow. 
And faced each morn anew with fear and dread— 
The nights! What tortures thronged my aching brain! 
I heard each hour tolled—each stroke a pain— 

And when the hideous dark was quenched in light 
My soul beheld a day bleak as the night! 


I wept for you until my eyes were dimmed— 

Till grief the fountain of my heart o’errimmed 
And filled my veins with fever’s scorching flame! 
I mourned as Rachel mourned when sore bereft— 

It seemed no refuge unto me was left 

Until with stammering tongue I lisped His name. 
And, lo, unto my soul there spake a voice 
That caused me in my sorrow to rejoice— 

That solace to my grieving spirit brought 
Till I complained no more against my lot. 


I did not cease to grieve for you, my son, 
(That may not be until my life is done) 

But, grief is now for what you must endure. 
Content am I to know that you shall bear 
Whate’er the part in battle be your share— 

I know your motives high; ideals pure; 

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ORIGINAL. POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


And if you should be numbered with the slain— 
Which God forbid—yet will I not complain! 

To you, my son, I send this word of cheer: 
Who lives or dies for right has naught to fear! 


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ORIGINAL. POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


BY RIGHT DIVINE 


H OW sleepest thou, O King, upon thy bed? 

Thy pillows? Are they comfort to thine head? 
Thy slumber is well guarded. Why up start 
As if an icy hand clutched at thine heart? 

Is not the royal couch of softest down? 

Do not thy legions hold for thee thy crown? 

Is not each humble subject thine to school? 

And this thy boast: “By right divine I rule?” 


To him that rules by right divine no fear— 

If he be just—shall come his slumbers near! 

For shame! Why dread the ghosts that flit the night? 
A frown from thee—will they not cringe from sight? 
What! These thy subjects that make loud complaint ? 
And do they then no longer hold thee saint? 

Should they persist, why not command them lashed, 
Until the pave again is crimson-splashed? 


Hark to the sound, O, King, that echoes near! 

That sound should music be unto thine ear: 

It is the measured tread of marching feet, 
Commingled with the riot of the street. 

Perchance glad tidings unto thee they bring— 

Thy well trained legions would not harm their king! 
Perhaps they come a closer watch to keep, 

And guard thee from the ghosts that haunt thy sleep? 


They come! They come! O, King, how swift the blow! 
Whate base ingratitude! And thou must go? 

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ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


The legions that from thee learned how to war 
Now tell thee that thy throne shall be no more!— 
Thy slumber ne’er again will be disturbed, 

For thou, O, King, the Voice Divine hath heard! 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WHEN I WAS KING 


N IGHT came, with velvet tread and silent feet, 
And bathed my eyes in poppy-dew, so sweet 
That I, with sleep enraptured, quiet lay 
And dreamed that I was king, just for a day, 

And sat in royal state 
Beside the city gate, 

And gave command that all should bend the knee 
Who passed that way—for I was king, you see. 


Oft had I thought of how a king should rule, 

And how comport himself with sage and fool; 

How hold the royal sceptre in his hand, 

And wear the crown with grace, and give command 
In haughty tone, and frown 
While clothed in purple gown— 

For he who wears the purple ne’er should smile, 
When he is king for just a little while. 


O’er all the world I ruled from sun to sun, 

And wished the day was o’er e’er scarce begun; 
The sceptre was too large, the crown too tight, 
The royal robes refused to hang aright— 

A pretty king was I— 

A start—a gasp—a cry— 

And from the throne I fell. The royal feet 
Had somehow got entangled in the sheet. 


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A LITTLE JOY RIDE 


r 1 ^HE banner of sleep o’er my couch was unfurled, 

-*• And I was at ease from the cares of the world, 
When “ting-a-ling-ling” went the phone on the wall. 
And quickly I answered the clamoring calll 
“Hello!” said a voice—and the sound was so clear 
That, startled, I turned to observe who was near— 
“Hello; is that you?” and I answered: “You bet, 

I’m nobody else; and you’ll please not forget 
That ’phoning a man at this time of the night— 

Unless it be urgent—is most impolite! 

So, please to be brief, and remember, I pray, 

That when you next ’phone, do your ’phoning by day!” 


The voice then continued: “I know you quite well, 
So, don’t get excited. I called you to tell 
I’m coming around in my Slumberland car— 

Its cushions are soft, and it runs without jar— 

And smoothly we two, sitting close side by side, 
Will slip through the night on a little joy ride. 

Now, hasten and get yourself into your clothes. 
And we’ll be away before anyone knows!” 

I dropped the receiver and hurriedly dressed. 

While wond’ring who called me away from my rest. 
And through the bay window quite plainly I saw 
A beautiful car, without blemish or flaw. 


I looked the car over, thought everything right, 

And soon we were whirling away through the night. 
Then shouted the driver: “I vow and declare. 

The roads are so rough, we will travel on air!” 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


The sides of the car then fell outward quite flat, 
And on through the dark, like the flight of a bat, 
We twisted and tilted, gyrated and soared— 

I feared every moment we’d tip overboard— 

The motors were racing and running so fast 
I felt satisfied that the oil would not last; 

And trouble, I knew, would be due just as soon 
As farewell was said to the man in the moon. 


It came as I fancied it would from the start— 

The motors ceased running—almost did my heart— 

The steering gear jammed, and of course wouldn’t work, 
And downward we swooped with a nerve-jolting jerk. 
The imp of a driver with glee laughed aloud, 

As headlong we plunged through a black thunder cloud. 
I trembled with fright, yet I feared to jump out, 

And did the next thing: started loudly to shout. 

I called to the driver: “Say, where are we bound?” 

He answered :“Hold fast; we will soon strike the ground!” 
And then I heard someone say: “Turn over, Jack, 

You know how you dream when you lie on vour back!” 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


DANNY JONES AND HIS PIPE 


S AID old Danny Jones, as he lay in his bed 

Awaiting the snip that would sever life’s thread: 
“The pleasure of heaven will be incomplete 
Without my ducleen, so well seasoned and sweet; 

So, please don’t forget when you put me away, 

To place in my cold hands the darling old clay— 
’Twill comfort me much if the journey be long; 

To leave it behind would be doing it wrong. 


“When sorrow was sweeping the ash off my he’rth, 

I found my old clay the best friend upon earth; 

When troubles were rolling their waves o’er my soul, 

I’d snatch them and pack them within the old bowl, 

And watching the smoke as it fled to the skies, 

A comforting peacefulness in me would rise— 

Quite often together we two would converse, 

And mostly conclude that things might have been worse.” 


And old Danny Jones, with his last gasp of breath, 
Said “how-do-you-do, Sir,” when greeted by Death ; 
And when he was taking his last lonesome ride, 
The old pipe of clay was held close by his side— 
Last evening, while watching a fast-flying cloud, 

I saw the old fellow, with'wide-spreading shroud. 
Go speeding along with his dudeen alight, 

A long trail of gray smoke 1 denoting his flight. 




ORIGINAL, POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


INSOMNIA 


O DD are the fancies that grow in the dark, 

While restless I wait for the Slumberland barqu; 
Strangely distorted come visions that gape 
As goblins, each moment assuming new shape; 
Pygmies to giants grow full ceiling tall. 

While eerie-like shadows flit over the wall! 
Misshapen faces—most hideous things— 

Add terror to torture insomnia brings. 


Out from each corner and sharp angled turn, 

A leering Medusa my glances return; 

Close by the wardrobe a vulture-like shade 
Retreats and advances and makes me afraid; 
There, where the curtain is moved by the breeze, 
A demon is dancing an imp on his knees; 

Hard by my couch, where the shadows are deep, 
An argus-eyed Gorgon is murdering Sleep. 


Faint in the darkness, a light pale and wan— 

A Will-o’-the-Wisp of the coming of dawn— 
Flutters and dances, grows stronger and bright. 
And gone are the shadowy terrors of night! 

Soft and alluring I now find my bed, 

And cool are the pillows whereon rests my head! 
Slumberland opens its portals to me, 

And I am a-sail on a fairyland sea— 


Sailing away to the Island of Dreams, 

Where moonbeams etch pictures on enchanted streams; 

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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Lulled is my spirit by music I hear, 

Advancing, retreating, now distant, now near, 
Filling the air with aeolian chords 
That suddenly crash with the harshest discords— 
Startled, I waken as one fearing harm— 

The crashing discord was the clock’s loud alarm. 


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ORIGINAL POEMS PROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


WEATHER BLIND 

(To “Tommy” Bancroft) 


I MEET him every morning. 

When I’m scouting ’round for news, 
And love to hear him grumble 
When I ask him for his views 
On topics of importance 
From Bersheba unto Dan; 

The folly of internp’rance, 

Or the prideful ways of man. 


An ordinary fellow, 

Rather small and undersize, 

He is a great complainer, 

Yet I’ve noted with surprise 
With him the day is pleasant. 
Whatsoe’er it be of kind, 

And long ago decided 

That my friend is weather-blind. 


The Christmas light was beaming 
On the day that saw his birth— 

I think his eyes were dazzled 

When he visioned first the earth— 
He says the sun is shining, 
Whatsoe’er the weather be, 

And that is proof conclusive 
That the clouds he cannot see. 


But when my friend is speaking 


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ORIGINAL POEMS FROM THE PEN OF A COUNTRY EDITOR 


Of the faults we hold most dear, 

The sun is never shining, 

And the gloom is ever near— 

It may be that his vision— 

Spirit and material sight— 

Has gotten out of focus— 

Finding darkness where there’s light. 


But this I must acknowledge— 
And so wish it understood— 

His answer to my query 

Is: “I don’t know nothin’ good,” 
And though it may be raining, 
With the weather in decline, 

He grumbles out the finish: 

‘‘But, I say, the day is fine!” 


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